


First Love, Second Thoughts

by MartinusMiraculorum



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/F, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartinusMiraculorum/pseuds/MartinusMiraculorum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tiffany Aching, Witch, had never really expected to be in love. But here she was, with unfamiliar feelings in a very familiar environment. Even Boffo couldn't help her now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Love, Second Thoughts

Tiffany Aching, Witch, Hag o’er the Hills, young woman of seventeen years and forty-six days, was having…difficulties. The sort of difficulties that she had not really ever anticipated having.

 _Being in love is hardly unusual for a young woman of this age_ , her second thoughts reminded her.

And that was true. She was an adult by the reckoning of most of the Chalk and the Lancre Mountains, and indeed, had been one for several years previous. It was the pointy hat. No one thought of her as a little girl when she wore the pointy hat. The pointy hat made her, in a very real way, a witch. And when had you ever heard of a witch being a little girl?

And those sorts of stories and traditions and expectations shaped the world that a witch walked in. And as she had learned from Miss Treason years ago, a witch’s best friend in her journey through life was something called Boffo.

Unfortunately, Boffo was of little help here.  Even within the very walls that Miss Treason had first let her in to the secret of her success. Her pointy hat now hung with her patched and nearly threadbare cloak on a nail in the wall. In this moment, she was Tiffany.

The cottage had changed a great deal over the years, though two phases were readily apparent. The overall impression was of a dark, dingy place with glistening cobwebs and dark corners that could be hiding who-knew-what.* But she was a witch, and, perhaps more importantly, had been apprenticed at this cottage, and then been present in the early days when the new resident had promptly white-washed the walls. And if she looked carefully, she could still see the bright white in patches where the lazy painter hadn’t quite been thorough enough in her frenzied effort to make the cottage more properly ‘witchy’ again.

Those had been interesting days. She knew she was being very silly to think so, but a part of her missed them.

_Yes, because being stalked by the incarnate spirit of Winter is exactly what every girl dreams of._

And then:

 _Of course, that was also the time that she blasted a fireball at the Wintersmith. Even if she narrowly missed hitting_ me.

She willed her second thoughts to keep to themselves while she waited for Annagramma to finish making tea.

 

*Tiffany was fairly certain she knew  _exactly_  what hid in those shadows. Even if something nasty had been there previously, it had undoubtedly fled in terror from the Nac Mac Feegle who watched over her every move. She appreciated their presence. Well, most of the time.

 

It occurred to her that it was a sign of just how far the older girl had come, that she would deign as to make tea for her visitor without complaint, hesitation, or muttered wish that she could use magic(k) to save her the work.

And  _that_ , her second thoughts cut in, was probably one of the reasons that Tiffany was now in love with her.

Annagramma finished pouring the tea and stirring in the milk. She added a sugar lump to her own, none for Tiffany. The other witch had been visiting long enough that Annagramma didn’t bother asking. Actually she hadn’t asked since the second time Tiffany had visited after having to bid farewell to Preston. Annagramma was a quick learner, if nothing else.

 _If only there was nothing else,_ her first thoughts groaned.

Tiffany’s heart leapt as Annagramma met her eyes.

How had this happened? 

Annagramma Hawkin was tall. Certainly taller than Tiffany, even after she had been the beneficiary of a late growth spurt. More than that, she  _felt_  tall. Once, Tiffany had found that annoying, or, if she was honest with herself, a bit intimidating. Now, she reminded Tiffany of a willow tree, graceful and slender with long blond hair that she now kept wild and tangled, almost billowing about her head and shoulders, probably first for the benefit of the villagers, who had certain expectations about witches, but apparently, now, because she liked it. She also wore less Occult jewelry, though there were a few skulls, including a golden skull charm around her neck, contrasting sharply with her pitch black dress. Again, Annagramma’s wardrobe choices were very much a part of Boffo. She had taken to the idea almost immediately. Pretending to be something other than she was had been second nature.

Once, Annagramma had looked  _down_  on Tiffany, on the entire world, as if it were some small pest that was barely worth her attention. She didn’t do that anymore. Well, she still looked down on most of the world; certain habits died hard. But the scorn wasn’t there. In the past, her stare had carried more than simply the implication that whatever the subject, she was right and you were wrong and she knew it; it had gone beyond that, saying ‘of course I’m right, how could you ever doubt it?’ and ‘it’s really not your fault, you know, because you just aren’t as intelligent/bright/well-read/gifted as I am.’

She also used to abuse the word ‘literally’ in a way that really got on Tiffany’s nerves. Actually, she still did that, but not as often, and somehow it bothered her less when she did.

 _Somehow indeed,_ her second thoughts stuck in.

“Are you quite alright, Tiffany?”

She was jerked out of her mental reverie, and based on Annagramma’s look of concern, she wondered just how long she had been sitting there staring at the girl. Had Annagramma said something? Flustered, she rose to her feet, and accepted the mug of tea. She took a quick sip and laid in on the table.

“What?...oh, yes, I’m fine. It’s been a long week. The shearing just ended, and two days ago Mrs. Ranford went into labor unexpectedly and I barely got there in time to help deliver the baby, but because the baby was early I had to stay with him all night and make sure everything was alright, and I’ve been checking in every single night to make sure they are both well. And I’d barely gotten out the door when Mr. Taylor called me over because his son couldn’t keep any food down, and then little Tilda Fields was trying to help with the shearing and got caught beneath a big sheep and broke a few ribs, and she was just screaming and screaming and…”

“Tiffany, please stop.” Annagramma’s words were blunt as usual, but Tiffany had known her long enough to recognize the little hints of concern and sympathy underneath that nasal tone. “My goodness, I’m surprised you could even make it over here. I would have thought you would have opted for a day in bed. You look a bit feverish as well, are you quite sure that you are not ill?”

“Yes, Annagramma,” Tiffany said patiently. She sighed. “It’s nothing, just a difficult week.”

“Tiffany, from what you tell me,  _literally_  every week is a ‘difficult week’ for you back on the Chalk. You work yourself far too hard, you know that, right?”

“I’m the witch,” Tiffany replied. “If we’re not busy, we’re probably doing something wrong.”

Annagramma did something Tiffany did not expect: she nodded. “I know, Tiffany. I can’t say I keep myself as busy as you but I am out on most days. It is lonely here, sometimes. This is my first afternoon free in three days. I’ve been taking the opportunity to read a new book that Miss Tick had posted to me.”

Tiffany was going to say something about how that sounded like a perfectly reasonable schedule to  _her_ , but her curiosity won out. “Miss Tick?”

“Oh, haven’t I told you? She stopped by a few weeks ago, just for a chat, a bit of tea, all that. Wanted to see how I was managing, I expect.” Annagramma sniffed a bit at this. “I think I’m doing just fine, of course. Just ask my people.”

 _My people,_ Tiffany noted. She couldn’t decide if that was arrogance or just the proper attitude for any witch to hold. Given that Annagramma had once viewed the people living around here as ignorant simpletons in need of enlightenment, it did say a lot about how far she’d come. Still, Annagramma did not shy away from pride.

“Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Miss Tick dropped by, and I mentioned that I had finished reading the cottage’s library for the second time, and was rather desperate for something new. Apparently she knows of this group of travelling librarians; they lend books for used clothes, food, that sort of little thing.”

 _Little thing indeed,_  Tiffany thought. Her second thoughts added:  _you come from a poor tenant family living on a farm at the foot of the Ramtops, Annagramma Hawkin. How ‘little’ can those things be to_ your _family?_

But she said, “yes, they used to come around during the summers. I’ve borrowed a few books in my time. There were never many to be had on the Chalk.”

“I expect so,” said Annagramma off-handedly. It was the sort of casual insult that Tiffany used to find infuriating. Now she knew it was just Annagramma’s way of keeping up her own self-esteem – not a terribly healthy way, mind you, but if witches were one thing, they were prideful. A witch who did not believe in herself was no witch at all.

“Anyway, it’s a  _fascinating_ book about some of the recent developments in Ankh-Morpork* society, especially this woman called Sybil Ramkin and her husband, and of course the Patrician, and a bit of the history. It’s very well written and very recent, by a woman named Cripslock, would you like to read it when I have finished?”

“That would be nice,” she managed. And it would be; Tiffany always loved the chance to read new books. It occurred to her that, besides Miss Tick, Annagramma was the only witch she had ever met all that interested in books.

 

*Tiffany had been to Ankh-Morpork, but thanks in no small part to the deadly combination of a country girl’s naivety (how many pubs could a city have?) and the presence of Feegles, had spent the night in the Watch’s cells.

 

“But you haven’t touched your tea!” said Annagramma, ignoring the fact that she scarcely had either.

“It’s alright,” Tiffany said, meeting the older girl’s gaze. Something about those eyes made her want to close her own and let the other girl hold her, give her just a bit of shelter from an endlessly demanding world. A willow that Tiffany could lean her back against when she finally had a chance to rest. Yes, she would like that. “It’s been worse,” she offered. And that was also true, but there was little conviction in her voice.

What was the matter with her? She was a Witch, not some needy, lovesick child! But right now she didn’t want to be a Witch. Right now she wanted to be Tiffany Aching, and she wanted to be here, with Annagramma.

Coming closer, Annagramma reached out with a pale hand, black wrist bangles jingling slightly, and touched Tiffany’s cheek. The contact sent a jolt through her body and she gave a soft gasp. “You know, I have always admired you,” Annagramma said quietly, all the while looking slightly horrified at the words coming out of her mouth. But to Tiffany’s surprise, she continued, “you’ve never backed down from any challenge, never run from any danger. And for a long time I thought that meant monsters and things from nightmares. But one of the thing you’ve taught me is that those dangers and challenges can be found in the everyday; in a difficult birth, when a child breaks a bone, when two men might come to blows if you don’t calmly settle a dispute over a fence that runs back to their grandparents.”

“Thank you,” Tiffany choked out. How did you respond to something like that, coming from someone like Annagramma?

“That’s not to say I wouldn’t have been able to figure it out eventually on my own,” she added, a hint of the old pride there. “But,” she softened, “I would never have become the witch I am without you. And you’ve been a good friend to me, Tiffany. Better than I’ve deserved.”

Tiffany was silent again. Annagramma’s face was closer now, her brilliant blue eyes drawing Tiffany’s gaze. Her nose might jut out like an iceberg, but the ocean it rose from was smooth and…perfect. Her breathing was getting heavier, and she felt an ache that she hadn’t known since Preston left the chalk. It was all she could do…

And then suddenly Annagramma’s lips were on hers, and they were warm and soft with a hint of mint. And Tiffany slowly kissed her back, her arms rising to wrap themselves around the older girl’s neck. Her second thoughts were mercifully silent in that moment, all heat and tenderness and Annagramma.

Tiffany felt the other witch’s hand gently stroke her face, and shivered. Then Annagramma drew back, looking stunned. “I,” she began. “That is, I didn’t…that wasn’t…”

“Shhh,” said Tiffany, pressing a finger to Annagramma’s lips. “It’s okay. It’s…more than okay.”

“Is it?” she asked. And Tiffany was shocked to see real fear in her eyes. She looked like a scared little girl right now, so vulnerable.

“Yes,” she said, confidently, her head still spinning.  _I kissed Annagramma…_

“Would you…like to do it again?” There was just a hint of a hopeful smile there.

“Yes,” Tiffany said, unable to hold back a grin.

And so they did. 


End file.
